Neverland
Vladimir straightened his back and relaxed his penetrating stare. “My apologies, Miss Cook. I should have been more sensitive. The accident—such a pity.”
A pity? Sophia went up in flames.
“Sorry, I should’ve told you,” Dad said to me. “Funny story. After we got to talking the other day, we discovered Vladimir knew your sister way back when. He lived in Brooklyn at the same time we did.” Dad’s forehead was as shiny as a greased pig. He dabbed off the sweat beads onto his sleeve and then draped his arm across my shoulder. “Some coincidence, huh?”
I shook off my bewilderment and gave Dad a reassuring smile. “Yeah, what’re the odds?”
“Let’s get some fresh air and enjoy our drinks outside.” Vladimir extended his elbow to escort me to the patio. I shrugged off Dad’s arm, placed my hand on Vladimir’s ripped bicep, and strolled away with him out back to a tropical Ohio paradise.
Despite the early December weather, the patio felt toasty and inviting. Heat lamps and potted palm trees lined the terrace, and a fireplace burned real wood next to the built-in stone bar. Vladimir handed Karen a glass of champagne and then offered one to me.
“Oh, I’m not old enough.”
“One small glass for a toast. I insist.” He had rings on all of his fingers—some were real and the others were tattoos.
I glanced over at Dad.
“One glass.” Dad would have never agreed under different circumstances.
Vladimir handed out the rest of the champagne. We raised our drinks. He said something that sounded charming in Russian. Of course, the three of us had no idea what it meant. He lifted his glass higher and translated the toast, “To new beginnings.”
We repeated the sentiment, clinked, and sipped. The bubbles tickled my nose. I had never tasted champagne—beer, wine, tequila, vodka, bourbon, yes—but nothing fancier than a top-shelf margarita on the rocks.
Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the chic seating area by the fireplace. “Your papa tells me you’re a tennis player.” When he lowered his arm, his hand swept over the long, bouncy, blonde waves I had curled into my hair. “You play for your college team?”
“Vladimir plays, too.” Dad sounded relieved to move on to a subject more palatable than his dead daughter.
“I’m on two teams. My college team is finished with competitions for the year, so my teammates and I play in an interclub league to stay competitive.”
“Carter is an incredible athlete,” Dad said. “Her team conditions every morning before class, and then they play in the afternoon for a couple hours. The best part is, she practices at the tennis club next to our house, Queensgate, so she can live at home and commute to campus.”
“Lucky me,” I said, more sarcastically than I’d intended.
“You must be a talented athlete,” Vladimir said, taking in my muscular biceps and shoulders. I bit my lip and fantasized about the cut of his body under his perfectly tailored suit. When his eyes finished making a lap around my body, he smiled, unashamed I had busted him checking me out. I liked his scrutiny. It felt different than those horny guys on campus whose hungry eyes practically stripped girls naked as they walked through the quad.
“Just competitive.” I smoothed down the fabric of the curve-hugging green velvet dress I’d borrowed from Kiki.
“Competitive is an understatement,” Dad scoffed. “Last year during a high school soccer game, she fell and broke her arm—”
“I didn’t fall. The fullback tripped me.”
“How awful,” Vladimir said. “Did your team win the match?”
I pointed at Dad. “See? He gets it. What matters is the outcome of the game. Details about broken bones are just background noise.”
Vladimir’s eyes sparkled. He understood my win-or-die trying competitive spirit.
Dad tossed his hands up and laughed. “See these grays, Vladimir? I had a full head of thick dark hair—then, she hit high school.”
There’s his happy face.
“Finish the story, princess.” Dad’s cheeks were rosy, his complexion glowing.
“I stayed in the game, scored two goals, my team won. The end.”
Vladimir licked his lips. “I admire your fire, Miss Cook.” He lifted his champagne glass and rattled off something in Russian that sounded incredibly bold and supremely confident—and toe-curlingly sexy. He tried to clink my glass, but I held it back.
“Not until you tell me what it means.” I challenged him with a wry smile.
He lifted an eyebrow, unaccustomed it seemed to being denied. “Something good.” He flashed a wicked grin and raised his glass, not willing to reveal his secret. His teeth were crooked, but dazzling white.
I sighed in mock defeat and raised my glass, momentarily giving him the impression he had won. Then I clinked his glass and replied, “Za zdorov'ye.” I was sure I’d butchered the to your health toast I’d picked up from Dad’s Russian culture book he’d been studying, but Vladimir seemed intrigued at my attempt to impress him.
“Touché, Miss Cook.” Vladimir winked and downed his drink, amused either by the idea I had outplayed him or my horrid attempt to speak his language.
The staff laid out a spread of hors d’oeuvres on the table behind us. I’m a vegetarian, and it’s chancy for me to find food at parties. Even if I thought I had a green light, sure enough, I would taste chicken broth or bacon and have to choke it out into my napkin. Just the smell of cooked meat was enough to trigger a gag reflex. I decided to play it safe and steer clear of the buffet, so Dad wouldn’t have to worry about my ‘overreaction’ to rotting flesh.
“My personal chef has prepared this meal with my tastes in mind. I don’t eat meat,” Vladimir said. “I hope it’s enough to sustain you.”
No. Freaking. Way.
Boris brought out a bottle of vodka and set it down in front of his boss. Worried I had stolen the limelight from Dad, I made a plate and wandered off to sit at an outdoor couch at the edge of the patio that overlooked the pool. I didn’t want to be a distraction as they imbibed and hopefully discussed the details of the job Dad so desperately needed.
I felt the searing heat of Boris’s intimidating gaze and tossed him an obligatory grin. He narrowed his eyes at me like I was some troublemaking rodent that needed to be exterminated and disappeared inside the house. Flipping through my phone, I saw my aunt had sent me a picture of my little sister cuddling a calico cat in her lap. Since we would be out way past her bedtime, Megan was spending the night with Karen’s sister. I texted her back.
Sweet! Tell Chloe meow, meow, meow.
Kiki had sent me a string of images from her downtown holiday adventure, including a hot one of our friend Ryan, who I’ve had a crush on since high school. She and our friends went to Fountain Square, which had ice-skating, and a nativity scene with a real reindeer, and a band…
I heard the tapping of toenails on the patterned concrete and set down my cell. Two big, poufy poodles pranced at my feet and whimpered for attention. “Hi, cuties.” I held out my hands to greet them.
Boris towered over me, restraining them with long, leather leashes. “This one is Gustav,” he pointed to the black one, “and gray bitch is Anastasia.”
“Oh, they’re so sweet. I used to carry twin poodles around with me when I was little, a black one and a white one—well, it started off white and then turned gray because I wouldn’t let Dad drown her in the washing machine.”
I picked up my cell and tapped the screen. “See?” I showed Boris a picture of my late sister Sophia hugging me as I cuddled my favorite stuffed animals in my arms. It was taken in Brooklyn before Dad moved us here to a suburb of Cincinnati. It was a windy day, and our wild hair was flying all over the place. I laughed, remembering the fun we’d had at Coney Island. Our biological mother ditched our family when I was a baby and Sophia was eight, leaving my big sister to fill her maternal shoes.
Boris glanced at the picture and managed a tiny smile that looked painful for him to conjure up. “You look like big sister.”
“Dad said my resemblance to her is haunting.”
He made a humph sound and handed me the dog’s leads. “Take them out back to play. Be careful of construction.” He picked up a remote from the bar and turned on the lights to illuminate the yard.
Across the patio, Karen and Dad cooed. I turned to see what they were gawking at, and then it was my turn to be wowed. The construction Boris was referring to was a nearly completed tennis court.
“Next time bring your racquet,” Vladimir called out to me. His meat-free bachelor pad was too good to be true. Alcohol, playful poodles, and a tennis court: My own personal Neverland.